


The Manufacturer's Future

by Silberias



Series: The Manufacturer and His Wife [3]
Category: North and South - Elizabeth Gaskell | UK TV
Genre: Dixon and John would be BFFs, Elizabeth is named after Bessie, F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-03-01
Updated: 2013-03-01
Packaged: 2017-12-03 23:44:25
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 725
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/704007
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Silberias/pseuds/Silberias
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dixon reveals, in her usual diversionary way, a secret which brings a smile to John Thornton's face.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Manufacturer's Future

The woman Dixon looked after and treasured his child nearly as he himself did. Margaret loved the baby, but she was with their daughter so much that the wonder of the girl’s face was just once in a while lost on her. Only Dixon understood. The woman held the baby during the day when Margaret was forced to put her down—to dress or eat or entertain—and woke in the night to care for the child’s worries.

“She looks like her grandmother, the late Mrs. Hale. The mistress looked a touch the same when she was tiny. Time might tell otherwise, but I do believe she looks like your dear wife’s mother.”

They both—he and Dixon—insisted that Margaret keep to her bed and rest in the night. He would wake when he heard Dixon’s movements, and after making himself presentable would go to the nursery. His daughter, Elizabeth, would coo and wave her chubby arms at him. The mite of a child—his own flesh and blood—was named after a portion of their previous suffering. Their misunderstandings of years before had been, in part, because Margaret was close to one of his workers. A woman who had been dying of cotton in her lungs, from inhaling the light and airy stuff from an early age. _My friend Bessie Higgins…is dying._ If only she’d made that known—but then again, there were many if only’s in their history together.

Dixon was his confidante in a lingering of that suffering. She had been the one who asked him, in a room far from where Margaret was stationed for the day, why he cleared his throat occasionally, what cold he couldn’t shake off. It had been easy to admit why she sometimes found him downstairs—in the middle of the night—with his touch of a cough. Nothing like what his workers had. Not like those who died without gray touching their hair, without working side by side with their children as they grew old enough to work in the mills, but it was there. The cough from the cotton came from him not being so much more grand than they, he’d said as he held baby Elizabeth close so she could listen to his heartbeat. The cotton was his living as much as theirs, why should it not be at least part of his death as well?

“Though I do believe your son shall look quite like you,” Dixon said one night as she warmed a towel and he held Elizabeth. He’d been playing with the baby’s fingers—eight months old and so very beautiful that he was sure he would settle a miniscule amount on her later in life to prevent some man from stealing her from his family—and his fingertips had stilled. Elizabeth’s tiny hands wrapped around his index finger and thumb as he stared into the child’s blue eyes.

John cleared his throat—nothing to do with the cotton just now—and glanced up at the woman who had cared so faithfully for Margaret. She was nearer for more hours to his dear wife than himself, of course she would know such details. Her round cheeks were dimpled with a secretive little smile.

“Now you must be surprised when the Missus tells you. You mustn’t let on—she wants it a surprise. I’ve known for weeks, but only this morning did she tell me. As though I didn’t help Mrs. Hale raise her!” She exclaimed as she gestured for him to hand his daughter over.

“With another little one I expect that you’ll find ways of ensuring I spend less time around my cotton, Dixon,” he murmured, watching her gently hold his daughter. She gave him a winning grin— _indeed_ that would be her aim—as she cossetted the baby. John bid her goodnight then, wanting to return to his wife’s arms. Margaret, whose smiles he only ever loved less when he was at home and had her spirit and words easily at hand. He would not be able to keep the secret, he was too full of wonder at the happiness that God had sent his way in the forms of Margaret, Elizabeth, and now another baby on the way. Besides, he and Margaret had agreed that they ought not keep secrets if they could help it.


End file.
